


For The King

by cyberkogane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Dark, Fantasy elements, Forbidden Love, M/M, Politics, Royalty, War, and if there is it's one that i've created, backstory and the plot will thicken as the story goes on, but so is everyone else so it's fine lol, i hope you give this a chance, it's a gritty story but trust me there will be lots of soft moments too, keith is a bit dark in this, others will appear as the stories progresses, talks of god but no specific religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23656336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyberkogane/pseuds/cyberkogane
Summary: The Kingdom of Daibazaal was not always so somber. Once, the stories say, it was a land that valued the flowers and the streams; it had a place for all creatures, it was ruled by a merciful family. Now, from field to field, the people go about their days in solemn spirits. Though they are not a joyous realm, they are grateful for the safety the lands entail. The royal family, and now the Mad King, has kept them safe from invaders for many generations.Now, the Mad King is dying.-- Keith is next in line to ascend the throne. He doesn't want it, not really. But he takes it anyway. Lance wanders into the city to the newly crowned king. He shouldn't be here, of course. But he is anyway. What happens next is a story of pain, loss, betrayal, forgiveness and love. --
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short intro chapter to a big story. I hope you stick around to read it!

* * *

_"You are enough to drive a saint to madness or a king to his knees."_

_-Grace Willows_

* * *

The Kingdom of Daibazaal was not always so somber. Once, the stories say, it was a land that valued the flowers and the streams; it had a place for all creatures, it was ruled by a merciful family. Now, from field to field, the people go about their days in solemn spirits. Though they are not a joyous realm, they are grateful for the safety the lands entail. The royal family, and now the Mad King, has kept them safe from invaders for many generations.   
  
Now, the Mad King is dying.   
  
Prince Keith sits in the tavern he is most commonly spotted in, veins ripe with ale. His black hair hangs in a braid on his shoulder and though he keeps his wits, he doesn't mind his own slumped form. For he is not his father nor is he his brother, who was ready and willing to take the throne before his own murder. Keith drinks at the memory of him but he doesn't dwell, not anymore. The time for that was up four months ago, when the first snow finally touched the ground. His steps leaving the grave were heavy and he hated the sound of it, each crunch loud and intrusive to his thoughts. Now, the noise of the tavern and the stench wafting from the street distracts him from those thoughts. He welcomes it all.   
  
"Your father will be dead soon."   
  
Keith lets the ale coat his lips before he sets the stein down, gloved hands holding on to the perspiration. He rubs the wet between his fingers, watching the black material glint in the light of the hanging lanterns. When he looks at the barmaid, he simply nods.   
  
"We all die."  
  
She slides him another drink, "But he is a king. That means somethin' more."  
  
"No." He shakes his head, "Not really."  
  
To him, his father's death is a merciful gift from God. The striking down of the beast is not prophecy of any sort but he feels it is time and this time has been long coming, perhaps before Keith was even born. Either way, he is almost eager for it.  
  
"They say your brother, rest his heart, was goin' to be just as mad." She says this quietly, voice hushed.   
  
Keith doesn't reply. His brother was many things, he had faults like any man, but he wasn't evil. He longed to open orphanages in the countrysides, to set to work farmers and connect the kingdom to the imports from the Western Seas. He had a temper, he could be conniving, but he was hardly cruel. Keith, on the other hand, feels his father's cruelty running through his own blood. It boils and thickens each day and he tries his hardest to keep it away. To mush it down to nothing.   
  
"You'll be a great king, Your Highness." Melva says, taking his silence as her leave. She moves on to the next patron and only slides him two more drinks before he stumbles his way from the tavern, throwing the swinging doors open with nausea roiling in his gut.   
  
His venture to the stables nearby leaves him heaving and he kneels in the mud, soaking his pants. It smells like shit here, the pigs fat and loud when he coughs up the last of his drunken supper. He wipes at his lips and stares at a runt, too small and weak to fight for a place at the pig's nipples. He watches it shake, its small hooves soft in the mud. In two days it will be dead. Starved and dehydrated and all because of its own weakness; the luck that its brothers and sisters have leaving none for itself. Keith kneels in that mud and he ponders the small creature, only rising when the bells toll from the towers in the distance. He takes a few steps forward and bends to take the runt in his hands, small enough to fit in his palm. Running a finger on its small head, he feels the thumping beat of its heart, how fast and desperate it is. Then, as the bells toll once more, he kneels down to place the runt at the mothers belly, nudging it in the direction of milk and therefore, life.   
  
"You're soft."   
  
Keith turns and spots Acxa, once his brother's trusted friend and guard, now his own. They don't get along very well and he doesn't fool himself into believing they're actually friends but he doesn't stop the conversation when it rises, either.   
  
"It will die."   
  
"Yes." Acxa says, blunt. "But the others will live."  
  
Keith stands and wobbles, just once, before finding his footing. "They'll live, of course. Until they're butchered in the summer."  
  
Acxa doesn't argue. She simply waits for him to leave the shadow of the stable, one hand always kept on the hilt of her sword. Keith's own is at the inn near the canal, where a whorehouse sits beside a chapel. There's irony there but Keith no longer laughs at it.   
  
"Is it time?" He simply asks, making his way.   
  
The streets are already lining with people and they slide their eyes to him, watching him carefully. He shrugs his coat higher on his shoulders, the wolf fur thick and warm against the wintry northern wind. When they reach the inn, his guards have his sword and few belongings in hand. He only takes the sword. It settles heavily against his hip, the blade sharp and forged from metals found in ancient mountains. It belonged to his brother and before that, their mother. Now, it is his.  
  
He lets his fingers brush the rounded hilt softly, his eyes falling shut mere moments before he begins his final trek to the palace. It's a grand, dark thing, never wavering or falling to time. The stone is the color of stable mud but it is thick and impenetrable. It towers over the city like a beast with wings and Keith can't help but look up and up, at the flags waving in the wind. He crosses the moat on a sturdy thick bridge, watching as the gates open. They rise above his head and he steps onto the grounds like a man going to be hanged. The heaviness in his chest sinks to his stomach but he pushes the nausea down, knowing that now is not the time to show all of his weakness. And, by God, he has many weaknesses. His father raised him and made him aware of them every day; slapping them into his cheeks, shouting them from across the table at dinner, shoving at his back so that he fell to his knees before them.   
  
_This is the only God you beg atonement to, boy._ His father would tell him, forcing him to stare up his throne, at the soldiers placed beside it. _This is the kingdom you will inherit, not one in the sky.  
  
_ The throne room is empty now. He'd always imagined that his father would die in that chair, that he would slouch in it and rot in it. When he was small, he would have nightmares of finding his father there, skin sliding onto the stone, eyes open and staring at a crown lain shattered on the ground. It's funny, he thinks, that his father can't even sit in it one last time.  
  
He finds the man in his room laying in a bed by a window. It is open, letting in fresh air from the mountains. Keith can tell he is almost dead, he can see it in the waxen pull of his skin over his cheeks. There is an underlying scent in the room and it makes everything smell sickly sweet, like decay. He walks inside and tries his best not to flinch when his father's eyes roll to find him. The man is more monster than human now, his teeth rotting in their sockets.   
  
"My son." He rasps, taking in a heaving breath. "You've come at last."  
  
"Your funeral will be fast." Keith says, "You will not be brought to the streets for a showing."  
  
His father doesn't move, save for the shaky rise and fall of his chest. "I am no queen, the people hardly love me." He sounds weaker by the second, "And they will love you even less. It should be your brother standing here now."  
  
"I agree."   
  
His father coughs and coughs, blood splattering against his lips. An attendant wipes at him but the old man manages to swat him away, fingers crooked. He looks one hundred when he is only eighty-seven. If not for the hatred Keith feels for him, it would be a hard sight to see.   
  
"I have no doubt you will destroy this kingdom." His father says, "Though perhaps you will be poisoned before that can happen."  
  
Keith sneers and walks to the window, slamming it shut. The room is cast to candlelight and he stares down at his father, emotions crashing into him though he can't truly place them.   
  
"Once you were feared. You were a king draped in silver and gold." Keith leans over him, noticing a puss pocket on his cheek. "Now you are _nothing_."  
  
He turns to walk away, ignoring the shock of those watching. He'll fire them all before morning, anyway. None of them support his rule and he doesn't blame them, though he refuses to give his father the satisfaction of being right. Poison, should it enter his body, will only ever be brought by his own hand.   
  
"Son." His father says, moments away from death. "Your mother would beg me to love you. I never did. But I raised you to be strong. I know you want to let this kingdom burn to spite me." He coughs, violently, before continuing. "But your mother lived in this world, too. And she loved her people."  
  
The words are enough to shatter Keith. He almost buckles under the weight of it but Acxa is suddenly there, ushering him from the room. The doors shut with finality, the thud loud, and he doesn't return again.

___________________________

Lance loves celebrations. He always has, even when he was a little boy. He remembers dancing in the midst of a festival, stealing drinks from his fathers cup, laughing like a wild thing at the moon. He can entertain others and he can play instruments and he can bring laughter to sad times. _This_ is supposed to be happy time. He arrived in the city just as the coronation began, the crowning of the new, young king beginning with loud bells ringing in the distance. People swarmed the streets, voices high as they ran to the city center, where the thick of the crowd truly began. But though they are rushing to see, this is still no celebration.  
  
It was hard enough entering the city on such a day, when assassin's from other realms are known to prowl. He'd been checked over and over by soldiers stationed around and if not for the seriousness of it, he would accuse them of having a good time doing it. Instead, he let it happen and painstakingly made his way toward the palace. It could be seen from the roads outside of the city and it stood in the shadow of the great mountains beyond, a staple for this northern kingdom. Lance shoulders his way through the crowd until the palace is before him, something so grand and so dark it sends a shiver running right through him. Everyone has heard the stories and legends of the royal families that have lived within those walls.   
  
_You mustn't go to the heart of the kingdom!_ His mother whispered to him the night before he left, _You've always been curious, son. But this is not a fairytale. Kings are not majestic and merciful like in the story books. They are snakes with golden hearts, that gold stolen from dying hands.  
  
_ _The Mad King is gone._ Lance had replied, _And now h_ _is last living son will make an appearance. This is history, Mama. I have to see it.  
  
_ Now, he stares up at the balcony protruding from the middle floors, at the flag hanging and waving in the wind, etched with the crest of the Monarchy. Inside, the son is being blessed and adorned the robes of his dead father. On his head, there will sit a crown, newly forged by skilled hands to fit with precision. He will hold a staff in one hand, symbolizing his rule, and a sword in the other, reminding everyone that he is their protector. Lance just wonders if he will have a look in his eye like the stories portrayed of his father and brother. Lance wants to see if he can spot the madness, the cruelty and evil that rests beneath his brow. It's a selfish curiosity but at the same time, he believes everyone here is looking for the exact same thing.   
  
The bells ring once more, loud like thunder. It echoes throughout the land and Lance wonders if it bounces from the mountains, if the fish in the lakes can feel it ripple the water. And then, just when a fat drop of rain falls from the overcast sky, the doors to the balcony swing wide. Generals step out and Lance gets to his toes to see as best as he can, skin alive with bumps. He holds his thick coat against his chest, arms folded tight.  
  
When the new king reaches the railing, the crowd roars. Though they are a somber people, they feel the affect of new rule like anyone else and though this is hardly a celebration, they are in awe of their new ruler.  
  
Lance doesn't make a sound.  
  
He stares up at the man and sees dark hair framed by a silver crown, the spikes high and sharp. Black fur rests on his shoulders, the material draped across his chest and latched with a huge, heavy ruby. The man looks to the crowd and Lance looks to him, wishing he was closer, wanting nothing more than to see the light in his eyes. Rain falls heavier now and the king only stays for a moment longer, allowing his people their view.   
  
Then, with a stoic expression, he is gone.   
  
Lance, on the other hand, remains. He waits until the crowd has settled enough to leave and he stares up at that balcony even longer, wondering if the king is still there. If he is waiting on the other side of the door, breathing heavy, feeling anything at all.  
  
Then, with a deeply drawn breath, Lance makes his way forward. He heads to the moat and the soldier standing guard, repeating in his head exactly what he's going to say and knowing that he won't take no for an answer.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

Keith wakes with stinging eyes. Sunlight is hidden behind thick storm clouds, the rain from yesterday still washing away at the ground. It wasn’t cold enough for snow. He knows that the fields are muddy and the streets trodden with that same mud, brought in by horses and boots. Just a week ago, he’d been walking through that mud himself.  
  
Now, he is letting his feet find a cold, clean floor. Growing up, his mother tried to make the palace a home. She was a gentle queen, with sharp wit and she knew how to make stupid men shut up. Though she slightly feared Keith’s father, she wasn’t so inclined to believe that he would hurt her. On one too many occasions, Keith and his brother overheard her threatening the man, speaking of a knife to his throat while he slept. But when she held Keith, her fingers were soft as petals, her voice as calm as a spring rain.  
  
He longs for that calmness now.  
  
Already, his court is beginning to fill with people looking for work. And it’s good paying work, the kind that will keep their families thriving through the rest of this harsh winter. He tries to pay no mind to the thought of their families. He can’t let his conscience play dictator. Any one of them could betray him. It’s smarter, he knows, to only trust himself in this process.  
  
Walking to the foyer outside of the throne room, he can hear voices and chatter inside. These people no doubt waited hours upon hours to find themselves here, going through the chain of soldiers and his own personal guard to be checked for weapons or ill-intent. Still, Keith waits a long moment before opening the doors. It’s a quiet moment and in it he allows himself to breathe. Taking deep, heavy breaths, he lets his eyes fall shut and his shoulders relax. He’d only just woken from sleep but he could already fall and find more, he’s so exhausted. Dark circles rest beneath his eyes and his black hair has been cut shorter and he doesn’t like it, unused to the air on the back of his neck. At his nape, there is a single marking; black ink, heavily shaded. The cross is regal and he touches it, feeling the slightly raised skin beneath his fingertips. He remembers getting it with his brother, several years before everything went to shit.  
  
Opening his eyes, he opens the doors and walks inside. The people quiet down, gazes following him as he makes his way across the room. The attention is like a prickle of knife-point against his back. It leaves him unsteady. Sitting, his fingers hold tight to the throne arm, nails pressing hard until they turn white. He grits his teeth, paying no mind to the way Acxa looks at him, as if reminding him that he can show no weakness. He already knows that.  
  
“Begin.” He says, voice gruff from disuse.  
  
The people speak of qualifications, which most have hardly none. Other than plowing fields or mending to livestock, they hold no other talents. Keith doesn’t condemn them for it. That in itself is usually labor intensive and rough. But he can’t afford to hire every person who gathers milk from an udder. So, he can only thank them for their inquiry and move on.  
  
By midnoon, he had selected only four new hires. They are given jobs to carry waste buckets and clean the kitchen, to mend the gardens and keep clean the faux pond near his mother’s grave. They’re less important jobs but they need to be done all the same. He’d already appointed his carpenters and cooks and there is no question that Acxa will act as his knight commander and highest war general, second only to himself.  
  
“Is that it for today then?” He asks his adviser Lilian, the sole person he’d saved from his firings. The woman was practically a sister to his mother and she was wise, more so than anyone he’s ever known.  
  
“I believe so, Your Majesty.”  
  
Keith sighs in relief, knowing that his day is far from over but at least the longest bit is done. He makes to stand, legs aching and he wants nothing more than to return to his quarters. He makes it down only two steps before there is a loud shout from outside of the throne room, the clanking of metal sharp. He hesitates, fingers twitching toward his sword. Acxa moves to stand before him, rigid and ready.  
  
Suddenly, the doors burst open and Keith spots a disgruntled, almost bemused look on Narti’s face. The woman is silent but her expressions always alert Keith to truths. And this look she gives means he can relax, just a tad, and not ready himself to fight.  
  
The boy standing in the middle of the room is panting, his hands on his knees, eyes cast upward at Keith. Brown hair falls into his face and he wears the clothes of a commoner, his boots slick with mud. When he finally controls his breath, his eyes go wide and he bows his head, muttering an apology.  
  
Keith waits. He doesn’t know why. If it were anyone else, he would allow Lilian to handle the impending conversation. But there’s something that makes him hold his place, eyes roaming over the boy. His brown skin is flushed, hands rough from work, eyes so blue they seem to pierce right through Keith. It unsettles him but it also intrigues him, which in itself is not common.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” The boy speaks, voice lightly accented. He has the dialect of the ocean, where the waves crash and froth against the beautiful shores. It’s a rolling, rich sound and Keith, surprisingly, wishes to hear him speak that tongue. He’d always loved languages, wishing he could learn them all in just one night. “I didn’t mean to cause a ruckus.”  
  
Keith hums and returns to the throne, trying his best to appear unaffected. “I hope this ruckus is well met with meaning.”  
  
The boy settles his shoulders and nods his head, as if telling himself something secretly. He looks at Acxa and the sword in her hand, the way it glints. That blade has seen more blood than any other.  
  
“Yes, of course.” He takes a step forward and Axca backs him up, a hand held up in warning. The boy glances at her again before finally meeting Keith’s eye, something like mirth swimming beneath the caution. “I wish to work.”  
  
“The inn by the canal is looking for a barman.” Keith says, trying to keep his lip from twitching.  
  
The boy looks offended but he hides it quickly, “I don’t drink.”  
  
Keith huffs a laugh, “You don’t have to. You just _sell_ the drinks.”  
  
Acxa turns to look at Keith, brow risen. It reminds him of his place and he schools his features, settling down.  
  
“What job are you searching for?”  
  
“Any here at the palace.” The boy says, looking around at the grand hall. The stone is dark, candles reflecting shadows and statues protruding from the walls above. The statues hold swords and spears, shields and axes. A mural is painted on the ceiling, a reminition of God giving life to man. “I can cook and sew. I can take good care of horses and forge strong blades.”  
  
“Blades?” Keith tilts his head, “You’re a blacksmith, then.”  
  
“My father was.” The boy pushes a thick lock of hair away from his eyes, “I learned from him. I learned well.”  
  
“Tell me something.” Keith stands and walks down the steps, bypassing Acxa’s shocked form. She shadows him but she doesn’t interfere. Keith pulls his sword from the sheathe, the blade long. “Tell me about my sword.”  
  
The boy stares at it and reaches out, cautiously. “May I?”  
  
Keith hands it over, watching the way the boy’s fingers slide along the sharpest edge. Keith can’t help but look at his knuckles, at the callus he can see resting on his thumb. His eyes take in the blade slowly, grip tight on the hilt as he flips it over. When a finger reaches the tip, a prick makes blood swell. The boy simply places the injured finger in his mouth and sucks the blood clean, not caring for the hurt.  
  
“It was forged long ago.” He starts, quiet. It is the only voice echoing in the room, the accent taking up space in a way that Keith doesn’t mind. “The iron was worked at for many days, diamond chipped from the rocks and forever embedded deep within. It will never break against a common blade. The iron formed to steel with patience, crafted above flowing molten rock.”  
  
Keith looks back at his sword, “I was unaware of the diamonds.”  
  
The boy smirks then, all seriousness mostly gone. He respectfully hands the sword back, watching as Keith sheathes it. “The mountains of its origin are the Dotseth Peaks, am I correct?”  
  
“You are.”  
  
“Then there is diamond.”  
  
Keith looks at the boy’s smile and though he is untrusting, he finds no malice in it. “What is your name?”  
  
“Lance.” The boy says immediately.  
  
“You can begin work this evening, yes?” Keith asks, watching Lance perk up at the words. “I would like you to be the royal blacksmith and the work you produce will determine if you stay. I'd like you as well to begin work in the stables. I’ve yet to gather a suitable caretaker for my horses and if you enjoy them and do fine, you’ll be paid favorably.”  
  
“Of course, Your Highness.” Lance's eyes are bright. "i'm grateful for the chance."  
  
Keith nods, just once, before looking the boy over. It’s a short moment, when Lance’s eyes are lowered and his lashes shadow his cheeks. Then, finally, Keith makes his leave. He doesn’t look back at Lance when he is thanked even though he wants to, even though there is some strange, new part of him that wishes to talk to the boy for longer. But the day will grow dark soon and there is work to be done. Keith is no longer a carefree prince, privy to the touch of pretty boys in taverns.  
  
Now, he is a king.

_________________

  
  
  


“There is unrest across the water.” Zethrid says, her voice low. She’s a large woman, built with muscle. A deep scar sits beneath her right eye, a failed attempt by an enemy to take the eyeball from the socket. “The Kingdom of Altea is ruffled by your father’s death. No doubt they see it as an opening.”  
  
“They can try.” Keith leans back in his chair, staring at the map splayed across the table, fingers pressed to his temples. His war council is small but that is fine with him. The less people who know his plans, the less chances there are of betrayal.  
  
“They _will_ try.” Zethrid says, pointing at the outer border of the realm. “They will find camp on the coast and settle in our forests, where they can hide until the first attack. They will find their way to the city of Mostrom or Solem first.”  
  
“We don’t know that they plan to invade.” Ezor rebutes, placing a hand on Zethrid’s arm. They share a bed and heart, Keith knows. If anyone can talk sense into the woman, it is Ezor. “You’re merely speculating.”  
  
“My speculations are always right.”  
  
“Yet, these do remain speculation.” Keith sighs and picks up his chalice, sipping at the rum, the drink imported from the coast. It coats his tongue in sharp flavors and he licks his lips, thinking. “We need word from our spies in the city. Altea is large but it is not impenetrable.”  
  
“There is no word yet.” Acxa says, “But I will send a messenger soon.”  
  
Keith nods, “In the meantime, we build our forces. Our army is large but it can be larger. Train them younger. Get them ready for anything.”  
  
His generals nod, the candlelight illuminating their faces. Narti steps forward from her place on the wall and signs to Keith, telling him that she’ll work with her spies that night, that she will lead them to villages on Altea’s own coasts. There, the people are less loyal. They’ll talk.  
  
“Good.” Keith finishes his drink, “Now, all of you get rest. Sleep well tonight.”  
  
For all of Keith’s defenses, he wishes no harm to those he considers closest to him. These women aided his mother and brother well. He has no reason to think they won’t do the same for him. They leave quietly, Zethrid speaking of drinks and venison, which she likes to hunt when she isn’t busy. He waits for the door to shut before leaning forward, placing his head in his palms. He rubs at his eyes and takes a shuddering, deep breath.  
  
War. It stains everything red, it has no heart. He wishes it would never come to the bloodying of green fields. He wishes it wouldn’t take the souls of his men. But if it comes, then it comes and he will be here to meet it.  
  
He remembers growing up in the looming shadow of war. His father had fought against Altea before and the time had turned him mad, his mind polluted with death. It turned his thoughts to chaos, made him always yearning for victory. It sent his people in a starvation, using all resources to fund his siege of that distant kingdom. Only after the final battle was won and Keith’s mother had talked his father into a treaty, did the people eat well again.  
  
Standing, he refuses to let his people starve. He will not be his father. He will not be the ghost of the man that had tormented so many, only to be praised when he saved them from the hell he had created in the first place.  
  
“I wish you were here.” Keith whispers to the shadows, thinking of his mother.  
  
They’re pitiful words. He can hear it in his own voice, the waver of a child. It disgusts him and yet he feels his eyes grow wet, dampening lashes sticking together. Outside, snow whips at the windows. The moon is hidden and the city is swept in candlelight within homes, glowing golden. He walks to the window and stares at the sloping hills, at the smoke rising from chimneys and the forest beyond, thick and dark with burrowing life. He wishes, not for the first time, that he had been born a woodland creature.   
  
When he was a child, he’d imagined burrowing into the ground like a rabbit. The memory makes him smile, a small, weak thing. But then he’s looking to the pins in the field closest to his quarters and he knows it’s due time for a visit. Guilt is built high in his chest and it strengthens the closer he gets to the snowy grounds, each step inside of the palace leading to a wilder place. He bypasses soldiers and servants and only truly breathes when the frigid wind whips at his cloak. It billows behind him while he walks, tears drying like ice crystals on his cheeks.  
  
The pin is huge, with tall wooden posts linking together a wide cage. On either side there are chained gates, large enough for people to look inside of the pin if they wished. Small houses, much too small for a human but large enough to be comfortable for what lays inside, are spread around in random places. He opens the gate and listens to the creak of the metal, reminding himself to send someone to fix and replace the pieces that are rusting.  
  
When he locks the gate behind him, he hears the shift of fur. Where once he’d had seven, now there are only two.  
  
“Zaria.” He calls, “Nox.”  
  
The first wolf to appear is slim but muscular, her fur ruffled and raised. It’s a light color, almost silver but with patches of gold. Her eyes are a deep brown, turning to honey in the sun. He squats and places the lantern he brought beside him, opening a palm and holding it out in welcome. The wolf moves slowly, shoulders rising and falling when her large paws press into the fresh snow.  
  
“Hello, girl.” He whispers, “You must remember me.”  
  
The wolf sniffs at the air, ears pressed flat on her head. But slowly, ever so slowly, she loosens her stance. Wind brings his scent to her nose and she stares at him, pupils wide, before running. A wolf slamming into you is never quite pleasant but he welcomes the warmth of her fur, smelling the wild pine forest and fresh wind. She’s heavy as hell and he falls to his back, swatting at her with no true anger or irritation.  
  
Zaria only rises when a new form emerges, pitch black and silent. If not for the flickering flame in the lantern, Keith wouldn’t be able to see the wolf at all. Whereas Zaria is lithe and muscular, Nox is _only_ muscle. She looms over Keith, maw revealing sharp, large teeth. She is growling, low and threatening, licking at those teeth with wet swipes.  
  
“Nox.” Keith doesn’t move an inch, letting his heartbeat slow. Wolves can smell fear. “Nox.”  
  
Zaria waits, though she is anxious. Still, she won’t move against Nox should the older wolf attack. Keith wouldn’t blame her, of course. And if he were to survive the attack, which is doubtful, he wouldn’t kill either of them. Animals have their nature and it is his fault that he stopped his visits. Nox leans closer, wet nose pressing into Keith’s face. Her eyes are blue but one is white, blinded from a fight with a wolf that is now dead.  
  
“Was it Runa that did that to you?” Keith asks, watching the name spark recognition in Nox. “I remember you tore at her throat. I patched both of you up and mended you for weeks.”  
  
Nox lets out a hot breath from her nose and though it should disturb him, it only brings fond memories. Suddenly, the wolf sits. She looks at Keith with wide eyes now, no longer slit with predatory intent. Her tail moves back and forth on the snow, ears held high.  
  
“There you are.” Keith sits up and brings a hand to her muzzle, feeling the soft fur. Then, slowly, he leans forward and places his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry.”  
  
It’s a familiar old thing, this bond. Zaria moves closer until she is sheltering him from the wind. Shadowed by his wolves, he is once again a child. He allows himself this. He finds no shame in it. Years ago, he would run through the fields behind their palace with five others, their howl's echoing throughout the kingdom. He was dubbed a wolf-changeling, given to the king and queen by fae who molded him from fur and teeth to human flesh. He wonders, sometimes, if that story is true. His mother never addressed it and he’d only asked her once if she had a different son; if he had gone missing in the night.  
  
He sits there for a long time, until his nose turns red and his fingers numb. The moon rises high and the clouds disperse, snow finally stopping its descent. It’s quiet and he leans against Nox for her warmth, the black fur encasing him. The wolves crowd him, sometimes licking at his face, other times nuzzling into each other.  
  
“You must miss your siblings.” Keith says. “I miss them too. I miss my own.”  
  
Lotor had looked nothing like him. Where Keith had dark hair, Lotor had light. Moonlit, almost, it sat stark against his brown skin. Keith’s own skin is pale, usually flushed with blood beneath. Lotor was tall and fluid in a fight, his arrogance always remaining though never without reason: he was talented and he knew it.  
  
“That bastard.” Keith curses, missing him so intensely it sends a fierce pain through his chest.  
  
Nox settles closer, as if feeling his emotion. Keith pets at her ears, wishing he didn’t have to go.  
  
“I’ll return tomorrow and we’ll go for a walk.” He promises, “I will never leave you again.”

__________________

  
  
They called him the wolf prince. Lance always imagined a wild child running through the forest, fast and unnatural. He would dream of glowing eyes, of small hands stained with blood and flesh stuck in teeth. His mother called them nightmares and said the stories were untrue; risen by foolish people, superstitious and with little faith.  
  
Lance must be one of them.  
  
It’s a devilishly cold night and he is still in good spirits from receiving employment. He wonders if people will now call him a wolf king. He’d almost forgotten about the stories until now. They were distant, silly whispers in his mind. But nothing could prepare him for this new sight.  
  
The king is settled between beasts. They ripple with muscle, their eyes piercing in the dark and though Lance thinks they haven’t seen him, he knows they probably smell him. He peeks from behind a stone wall crawling with vines, which will bloom ivy and flowers in the spring. Ahead, illuminated only by a lantern, the king is staring at the sky. Stars peek from behind snow clouds and the moon is bright, shining down on the forest beyond. The old whispers return, reminding Lance of wolves and fae and vicious things. If his mother could see the boy now, taking comfort in such fearsome animals, surely she would turn superstitious too. Dogs have been trained to obey their masters. Lance had a dog once, too. But these creatures are wild at heart, not fed sheep by hand; they stalk and rip the lamb apart themselves.  
  
Lance is enraptured. He leans against the wall, his breath turning to steam when it meets the air. He’d been on his way to his new quarters, shown to him by a quiet woman with a cat at her heels. She was a soldier but she seemed kinder than the others, more likely to extend patience and assurance. She’d pointed at the building he would reside and left him and Lance wanted nothing more than to go inside and light a fire in the hearth, to warm his frigid fingers. He’s from a warm place and this northern realm is almost alien to him. Never has he been so cold.  
  
Now, he is stuck in place. Urgency gone, he prays that he is not seen by the king. Are his sights just as wolfish? Can he see clearly in the dark? Lance waits and waits, until the lantern dims and the king stands, ruffling his wolves fur fondly. He says something but it is too low and far away to hear. He leaves through the gate and locks it firmly behind him, watching as the wolves return to their homes before turning to leave himself. Lance relaxes, knowing the second the king goes into the palace, he can simply slip away to his own new home. But then the man is turning his head, eyes sweeping the exact spot Lance stands. He moves further behind the wall, stifling his breath to keep quiet. He listens for footsteps, for the unsheathing of a sword. But it never comes.  
  
And once he’s sure it will remain that way, he moves. He traipses across the field to the only building by the stables, secure against the backdrop of the forest. Outposts are tall behind him, soldiers keeping watch of the treeline. He eyes the torches flickering down the hill, watching them dance against dark trunks. Then, quickly, he is opening his door and finding his way inside.  
  
He does just as he planned: lights a fire, wipes himself down with a clean cloth and water, uses the stove to warm a cup of milk. Then he settles on a simple bed, the downy pillow soft beneath his head. His eyes grow heavy and hooded and he stares at the shapes flickering against the wooden ceiling. It’s a nice place, this little house. It smells like fresh pine, the quilt covering his body a comforting weight.  
  
But as he falls asleep, he knows one thing for certain. When the king looked in his direction, there was something in his eye.  
  
Though dormant, it shined. At its core, it was viciously wild. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's so many plot twists and things that are going to happen I wish I could read it myself instead of writing it! lmao, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!!


	3. Chapter 3

Keith walks the grounds slowly. His steps lead him to the edge of the forest and the large river that flows beyond, Nox and Zaria keeping pace beside him. They sniff at the air and watch the woodland life with sharp eyes. He is not afraid when they are with him. Then again, he’s never been afraid of dark forests at all.  
  
At the river, he kneels and lets the cold water run over his knuckles. It stings but it feels good, refreshing and alive. Pebbles line the bottom and he plucks one up, turning the smooth stone in his fingers. When it hits a patch of sunlight, it glints and shows the small crystal beneath the outer shell. Keith pockets it and moves on, following the flow of the river as the sun climbs higher in the sky. Surely, his palace is fine without him for these short hours. He refuses to worry. If things were to fall apart so quickly it would simply be proven that he’d picked the wrong staff.  
  
He rests a hand atop Zaria's head, rubbing at her ears. She’s tall, just as Nox is, standing just beneath Keith’s chest. If she were to rise on two legs she would swamp him in height. Luckily, she prefers not to.  
  
“We should return soon.” He says, watching Nox stop from her trek ahead to glance back at him. “I know. I don’t want to go either.”  
  
A few times growing up Keith had considered letting his wolves go. At the time, they would have made a pack. They were all siblings, all found nearly drowned after a heavy rainstorm, their mother no doubt swept away by the mudslide from the mountains. It was a devastating time and he’d only found the pups because he was desperate to run away; he had packed a bag, shoved several pieces of hard bread and salted meat beneath one pair of clothes and he’d set off intending to never return. When he found the pups, his desire to run away vanished.  
  
“You two can hunt.” Keith says, “I could leave you here. You could run free in these woods.” Zaria sniffs at his hand, her tongue warm when she licks his fingers. “But you’d simply return, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Bemused, he turns to begin their walk home. His footsteps are quiet, muted by mushy earth from melting snow. Midday is still frigid but not so brutal as night. He welcomes the sunlight on his skin, bright and heavy. It warms his cheeks and his neck and by the time he returns to the edge of his land, he’s taken his fur coat from his shoulders. It leaves his white shirt loose, drawstrings left to show skin at his chest. There is a scar where his heart is, though he doesn’t remember the injury. It has simply always been there. It’s a jagged thing, looking as though a blade had entered and torn its way down, edged with rough spikes.  
  
He climbs up the hill, his boots sliding only once, black pants dampening when he catches himself on his hands. It makes him chuckle and Nox tries her best to help him up, nudging his ass with her head.  
  
“I’ve got it, girl.” He thanks her, “Let's get you some food now.”  
  
They stick by his side the rest of the way, which keeps others at a distance. For this, he is grateful. Soldiers bow respectfully and gardeners stare from feet away, clipping at branches. He reaches the pins and looks at the pitiful houses they sleep in, made years ago, the wood no doubt rotting. It’s not a hard decision, the one he makes now.  
  
With a whistle, he motions for them to keep beside him. “You’ll no longer sleep in the cold.” He says, “Things have changed. I’m the king now.”  
  
They follow him around the eastern wall, all the way to the butcher’s block. Here, meat hangs to dry and fresh kills are ready to be skinned and cut. He smells iron in the air. Making his way inside the building, he is glad the butcher is taking a shit somewhere else. Keith grabs a sharp saw and cuts away at a stag’s meaty leg, pressing hard to break bone. He divides it into two large pieces, knowing his wolves can break the rest of the bone with ease between their strong teeth. He whistles and they follow, eagerly waiting.  
  
“Have a good breakfast.” He says, tossing the meat. It lands between them and they devour, blood soaking the wet ground. Keith watches, happy they’re filling their bellies. “This will keep you from eating anyone, yes?”  
  
He waits for them to finish and by that time, the butcher has returned. Keith speaks to him briefly, thanking him for the meat, before instructing him to set aside fatty sections each morning and night. Under his father’s care, the wolves ate scraps and meat that had begun to stink from age. Now, they will receive the best he can give them. Guilt eats away at him. He never should have left them here. 

_____________________

“You can’t keep wolves with you everywhere you go.” Zethrid says, though it isn’t an order or even a suggestion. She eyes them warily from where they sleep beside him, huge paws crossed to rest their heads. “People will think-”  
  
“I hardly give a damn what people think.” Keith says, amused. For a woman so large, she suddenly must feel quite weak. “They won’t hurt anyone unless I give the command.”  
  
“You’re sure, then?”  
  
He grunts, “Mostly.”  
  
Zethrid glances at Acxa, as though wanting the woman to talk sense into their king. But Acxa only gives advice or warning that she knows Keith will take into consideration. This is not one of those times.  
  
“The King will not put innocent lives at risk.” Acxa says, voice certain.  
  
Nox shifts and yawns, her jaw opening to reveal all of her teeth. Acxa tries her best not to stare.  
  
“You’ve asked me here for a reason?” Keith tries to bring the conversation back to matters at hand.  
  
Acxa nods and looks to Lilian, the old woman sitting closer to Keith and the wolves than any other dare. Her white hair is braided against her back, face wrinkled but still retaining beauty.  
  
“The orphanage is doing poorly this winter.” She says to Keith, “It would be good for your image as the new king to give them a hearty donation.”  
  
“Of course.” Keith agrees.  
  
“And,” She continues, “for you to make an appearance. For the children.”  
  
Now, Keith doesn’t really agree. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.  
  
“I’m not good with children.”  
  
“You don’t have to be.” Lilian says gently, “No one will blame you for that. But it is good for the youngsters to see the charity and kindness of their ruler. The nuns will be there and they will relay it back to the holy church. Your mercy will be talked of and spread with speed. It will give people reason to favor you and deepen their loyalties.”  
  
Keith sighs and concedes, knowing the woman is right. Of all the things that can scare Keith, from attempted assassinations to war and death, this is what worries him the most. Innocent children and his inability to talk to them.  
  
“When do you suggest this meeting happen?” He asks.  
  
“Tomorrow. I will alert the orphanage and set up a time to arrive.”  
  
“Thank you, Lilian.”  
  
The woman nods and rises, stepping right over Zaria to reach the door. Keith huffs a laugh at Zethrid’s shock.  
  
“We’ll take horses into the city.” Keith stands and rolls the sleeves of his shirt, the white material wrinkled but clean. “No carriages, no display with horns or announcements.”  
  
Keith goes to the stables after the meeting, glad that the sun is still out. He goes without coat or cloak, though his sword sits snugly against his hip. The stables rest beside a large pasture, which in the summer is ripe with green grass and apples in the trees. Now, however, there is only snow and old hay.  
  
When he enters the stables there is a rich smell like that of earth and produce. Underneath, is the smell of the horses and shit. He’d never been particularly fond of horses but he knows it is important to take good care of them. In all, there are three royal stallions, four mares and his own; a clydesdale from allies in the greenest isles.  
  
He finds the largest stall and plucks up a small round apple to treat the horse, who he has yet to name. A murmur filters through the stable and Keith slows his steps, rolling his feet to keep from making noise. Whoever it is doesn’t hear him, his words becoming clearer the closer he gets. The clydesdale is huge but he barely looks to Keith, instead bending his head to crunch something between his teeth.  
  
“It’s not like the mountains are awful.” The stranger is saying, sounding as though he’s also snacking on something. “I’ve never seen them before now, you know. They’re amazing. Huge. A bit scary. But I miss the ocean.”  
  
“Then why are you here?”  
  
Almost instantly, the stranger jumps from his spot on the ground. He rises comically, eyes wide and hair mussed. In his hand, there are carrots, one still hanging from his mouth. Keith recognizes him instantly as the boy from the throne room, who’d insisted on a job.  
  
“Your-” The boy bows his head, “Your Highness, hello. I’m just, your horse here needed a good brush and there were carrots so I we decided to take a break. To eat.”  
  
Keith raises a brow, noticing a smudge of dirt on the his chin. “Your name is Lance, right?”  
  
“Yes.” He nods and holds his hand out, offering Keith the rest of the carrots.  
  
Taking them, Keith feels Lance’s fingers brush against his palm. There is a jolt in that touch, though Keith blames it on the starvation of touch itself. It’s been a long time since someone had brushed against him so gently. The men he’d visited in the city were rash and quick, most scared that they would displease Keith. Those, he usually left alone.  
  
He takes the carrots and holds his own palm flat, letting the clydesdale eat.  
  
“It’s a beautiful horse, Your Highness.” Lance clears his throat and starts to brush the animal’s coat again, gentleness evident in every stroke. Keith watches the motion, suddenly feeling quite tired and comfortable. “I’ve never seen one so large.”  
  
Keith nods, “It was an ascension gift from the princess in Norlida. They breed them there.”  
  
“His hooves need a bit of attention.” Lance motions toward the feet of the horse, “I don’t believe he got much water on his voyage across the sea.”  
  
“His basin is full now, correct?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Pleased, Keith opens the wooden gate and steps inside the stall, causing Lance to back away in shock. Keith simply runs a hand on the horse’s side, feeling the coarse hair beneath his fingers.  
  
“I’ve never liked horses very much.” Keith says, voice hushed. It’s calm here in the stables, the thunder coming from the south sounding soft and very far away. “I’ve always been drawn to wolves.”  
  
“So it’s true then?” Lance asks, sounding as though he’s unsure he should speak at all.  
  
“Is what true?” Keith takes a second brush, this one strapped to his knuckles, and runs it through the fur clean. Hair falls in clumps and the horse huffs a breath, enjoying it.  
  
Lance clears his throat again and takes to brushing the horse’s long brown tail, bits of white sprinkled in at the end. He works through knots easily, fingers deft and determined. “You raised wolves when you were a child.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’ve seen them recently.” He glances at Keith but it’s a fast look. “Your wolves. They’re beautiful as well.”  
  
At this, Keith allows a small smile. He continues to brush, slow and steady. “They are. I once had seven altogether. Now there is only Nox and Zaria, the youngest.”  
  
“What happened to the others?”  
  
Keith shrugs, “Time. It takes away all things eventually.”  
  
Lance nods and twists the tail hair in his fingers, passing one lock over the other to create an intricate braid. They work in silence for a long while, Lance only passing Keith once to retrieve a wet sponge. He scrubs at the horse’s hooves, working diligently to scrape away dried mud. Keith sneaks glances at the boy, watching the muscles in his arms shift, the way the water drips from his fingertips. He wipes at his forehead and when his hair moves from his face, Keith spots a deep scar on his temple.  
  
“Thank you.” Keith nods at the horse’s hooves, “I wasn’t sure if you would like this job.”  
  
“I love animals.” Lance places the sponge in a bucket and stands, stretching his back. “I don’t mind this at all.”  
  
Keith gulps and tears his eyes away, “I’m glad to hear it.”  
  
Lance is looking at him but Keith refuses to meet his eye, feeling childish and foolish and cowardly. It is just a boy and he is a king; he shouldn’t feel nerves sparking along his veins. Yet, when he rubs at the horse’s nose and risks a look up, he finds himself stuck in place.  
  
“What is his name?” Lance asks after a moment, moving to take the brush from Keith. He’s respectful and careful, as most are when they talk to Keith. But there’s a bravery there, too. He isn’t afraid to ask questions.  
  
“He doesn’t have one.” Keith admits. “This is only the second time I’ve come to see him.”  
  
“Oh.” Lance’s brows are raised and he looks contemplative.  
  
Keith keeps another smile from his face. He can practically feel Lance’s excitement. “What names would you consider for him?”  
  
“Oh, none of mine are worthy-”  
  
“He’s a horse.” Keith interrupts, hoping his voice is playful. “Not a newborn prince.”  
  
Lance walks to the front of the stable and runs a few fingers right between the horse's eyes, down to the soft felt hair on his nose. He looks at the horse's eyes and Keith realizes the two of them sport a celestial blue; matching.  
  
“Where I’m from by the sea, we have stories of mythical creatures.” Lance starts, just as rain begins to fall on the roof. They’re heavy drops and Keith is listening closely, interested. “We have tales of kraken’s and hydra, of whirlpools that swallow fleets. One creature always interested me the most.”  
  
“What creature is that?”  
  
“A hippocampus. It has the body of a horse and the tail of a fish. They’re said to bring hurricanes.”  
  
Keith waits for him to continue, enjoying his voice.  
  
When he does, Lance sounds fond and homesick. “I would wait on the seashore when the clouds would grow dark, searching endlessly for the sparkle of scales and hooves. I thought that if I waited long enough, it would swim to shore and I could ride it far away.”  
  
“Weren’t you scared of the hurricane it would bring?”  
  
Lance shakes his head, “When I was a child, I wasn’t afraid of anything.” He looks as if he wants to say more but instead he says a single name. “Khashas.”  
  
Keith tilts his head, thinking. “It sounds Altean.”  
  
At this, Lance shifts his feet. He looks everywhere but at Keith and if Keith were inclined to consider it suspicious, he would say something about it. But a question like that could make anyone nervous. The times of him as king are fresh, everyone knows assassin’s are hired to take him down in these first months.  
  
“It is.” Lance admits, “My grandmother was Altean. My family arrived on the coast when they fled the desert kingdom during a time of famine. Though my father is from these lands originally.”  
  
The admission is risky. Lance is brave, Keith decides, and honest. It is a trait he admires.  
  
“You must speak Altean then.” Lance looks surprised. “Did you assume I would have you at the execution block for your admission?” Keith continues, “I do not hate the kingdom of Altea, not as my father did.”  
  
Lance is quiet and Keith knows he’s said too much. He must keep his distance from things like this. Kings do not have friends. They do not speak of family and mythology with beautiful boys in the rain.  
  
“Khashas it is then.” Keith says abruptly, turning to leave the stall. He gives his horse one last pet before whistling for his wolves, trying his best to depart quickly.  
  
If Lance wishes to say anything else, Keith doesn’t give him the chance to try. He ignores the shock that must be on Lance’s face and he doesn’t explain why he accepted the name. He just knows that he likes it. He repeats it in his head on his walk back to the palace, rain running in rivulets down his face. It’s a cold rain and it makes him shiver but he doesn’t mind.  
  
It clears his mind of foolish, dangerous thoughts.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think and if you'd like for this story to continue! I'm having fun writing it but idk if people are interested in it? I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

The orphanage is a large, old building near the western wall of the kingdom. Keith rides his horse through the streets and takes in the decrepit way it shadows over the businesses and homes surrounding it. Crows and ravens nest on the roof, their black wings blighting against a clear sky. Keith watches them fly to and fro, cawing loud.  
  
People stare at him but it was never unusual to see him around these parts only a few months ago. He had been rebellious against his father’s rule and he’d taken shelter in many houses here, where friends were found in unlikely places. Still, to see him as king, they flock to take a look.  
  
Even without horns and announcements, he doesn’t like the formality of his arrival. Nuns stand at the doorway and bow when he gets off of his horse, their headdresses shifting over their faces before they rise again.  
  
“Your Majesty.” They greet, eager to get him inside.  
  
Keith is nervous. It’s one thing to stand before grown men and women, with all of their faults and wrongdoings and evils. But to stand in front of children, with their innocence and hope and _know_ that they will grow to despise the world for what it will do to them- that leaves Keith haunted.  
  
He clears his throat when he steps inside the orphanage, looking around at dark wooden walls, hearing the creak of the old floors. His steps feel too heavy and his breathing too loud.  
  
“Are they asleep?” He asks, following a nun through an arched doorway.  
  
The further they walk, the more it smells of soup and mold.  
  
“Of course not.” She says, “They were told to be respectful. They are eager to see you, Your Highness.”  
  
They pass a large room filled with old books and blocks, there is a fireplace that is lit but low and what appears to be cribs lined with blankets and pillows.  
  
“Our youngest are watched throughout the night.” The nun explains, “The rest stay in their rooms upstairs.”  
  
Keith glances up the stairs, noticing how steep and dark they are. It’s almost foreboding.  
  
“This way.” The nun ushers him past the kitchen and several other rooms, though all of those doors are shut.  
  
Behind him, Acxa and Ezor keep watch even though they feel a bit unsettled, as well. Keith can see it in their eyes when he turns to look at them.  
  
Finally, they exit through a final door and are met with sunlight. The grounds behind the orphanage are quite large and for that Keith is glad. He imagines the children running through the field, hiding behind the trunks of the trees in the distance. He hopes they play games and tell stories, using imagination like all children should.  
  
But when he sees them, they look frightened. Small faces peer up at him, eyes wide and cheeks too hollow. Their hair is stringy and their faces dirty, clothes more like rags than pieces to keep them warm.  
  
“Say hello to your king, children.” The nun orders, voice suddenly very stern.  
  
They stand and bow and Keith feels so ashamed he could vomit. How had his father let this go without fixing? How could nuns of a peaceful, religious sect speak to them as if they were worse than dirt?  
  
Glancing at Acxa, he hopes he portrays his anger vividly. She nods, just once, in understanding.  
  
“You do not have to bow to me.” Keith says, trying to keep his voice gentle and soft. “Not today.”  
  
The children sit and he stands there awkwardly for a few moments, staring at the sea of them. There are so many; most left abandoned by ill parents, some taken from neighboring villages. He begs for forgiveness secretly, knowing that if he had seen this sooner, he could have put his foolish rebellion aside to help them.  
  
With a determined heart, Keith walks forward and sits amongst them, watching their faces grow in shock. They glance at the nun and she stares back, hard and unwilling to explain their king’s actions. Not that she could, anyway. For him to sit on the ground with them is to lower himself and it is not a common thing to do at all.  
  
“Hello.” He says, hoping his voice carries to those farthest away. “I’ve come to visit you today so that I could speak with you. And give you gifts.” He smiles, hoping it appears genuine.  
  
At this, they perk up. They look behind him and notice Zethrid leading several servants with brown wool bags.  
  
“Before you get them, however, I need to know something.” He doesn’t look to the nun. He doesn’t dare give her the option to motion or threaten them behind his back. “Are you happy?”  
  
They are confused and he can tell. So, he stands and looks at all of them equally, repeating the question. “Are you happy here? Do not be afraid of those who care for you. So long as I am your king, there will be no harm done to you.”  
  
Suddenly, a small girl stands. Her hand reaches for him and he holds his own out to her, letting her grab hold of his finger.  
  
“Your papa wasn’t nice.”  
  
The nun gasps but Keith pays her no mind. Squatting, he grabs her other hand and holds them both gently, giving her small smile.  
  
“Aye, he wasn’t.” Keith agrees, “But I am not my father. And I promise to you, I never will be.”  
  
Children have a way of seeing the heart of a person. They are closer to God than anyone else and Keith tries his best not to feel judged. She is simply looking at him, assessing this man that promises things she fears he will not uphold. But eventually, she gives a tiny, toothy grin.  
  
“There you are.” Keith smiles back and stands to ruffle her hair, looking at the rest of them. “Now, who is ready for presents?”  
  
Keith wanders around the children as they play, watching their faces brighten as the sun climbs higher in the sky. Throughout the visit, he squats and talks to them, gathering information. It is a politician's move but he does it anyway, knowing that if they are comfortable they are more likely to tell the truth. He notices the little girl who spoke first follows him around like a duck, her bare feet dirty and her shoulders held high.  
  
“She is pretending to be royalty.” Acxa says at one point, sounding amused.  
  
So, before Keith leaves, he takes a small stone from his pocket. It is the rock from the river, with crystal settled inside.  
  
“Hold it up to the sun when you’re scared.” Keith tells her, letting it rest in her palm. “And know that you won’t always be stuck in this place. One day you will do mighty things.”  
  
When he enters the orphanage and leaves the laughter and chatter behind, he immediately finds the head nun. Anger boils inside of him so fervently he can hardly stand it.  
  
“I will build this from the ground.” He tells her, watching her jaw tick with muscle. She is angry and she is scared. “I will have people watching you and your sisters. These children will receive clothes and toys, wheat to make fresh bread and meat to fill their bellies. If you hoard this food or you leave another bruise on any of these children, I will have you hanged in the street.”  
  
“Your Majesty.” The nun tries to argue, “We are members of the Faith-”  
  
“And I am your king!” Keith shouts, that dark, cruel part of him flaring at the base of his heart. It wants to cut her down, to make her pay for the pain she has inflicted. Instead, he steadies himself. “I care not that you claim to serve only your God. It does not excuse you from the laws of man.”  
  
When she doesn’t speak again and simply bows her head, Keith finally turns to leave. He is fuming, like a wolf who had been cheated on a hunt. Acxa follows close behind, no doubt prepared to talk sense into him if he should snap. It isn’t something he is proud of, this animalistic fury he feels. It disgusts him; it reminds him of the man who had raised him. So, in order to put it to rest, he climbs atop his horse and leaves the orphanage far behind. He rides through the streets and directs his horse to the outer fields, the stretch of land between the city and the palace. He sends her running hard and fast and he feels the wind whip frigidly against his face. He _must_ calm down.  
  
Khashas is breathing in loud huffs when he finally slows, finding himself at the stables. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he hopes that the boy is here. Lance had been a calming presence last night and though he hadn’t expected it, he found himself ruminating on it before he went to bed. Usually, Keith would crave ale to sate his emotions. It would allow him to loosen himself up enough to laugh at shitty people in shitty taverns and have no shame doing it. Now, it is not the drink he desires.  
  
“I hope you don’t mind my company.” He says, finding Lance at the blacksmith table. He is working at a piece of metal, hammering it and letting it cool before he refires it.  
  
“Of course not, Your Highness.” Lance wipes at sweat on his temple, “Though I do not know how good of company I can be.”  
  
Keith smirks, just a tad. He leans against a post and tosses an apple into the air, one that he’d stolen from the stables before he let Khashas rest. He tries to focus on it, the way the red peel has hints of yellow, but it is a weak attempt. Again and again, his eyes trail back to Lance.  
  
His skin glistens against the heat of the charcoal, sparks flying when he hammers and turns the metal.  
  
“Do you enjoy this work?” Keith asks, breaking the silence.  
  
Lance brings the metal to a bucket of water, steam rising fast. He is breathing hard when he looks up at Keith, blue eyes bright. “I do. It reminds me of my father.”  
  
“He’s dead.” It isn’t a question. Keith doesn’t mean to be rude but he is blunt, a trait that has gotten him into a lot of trouble.  
  
“Yes.” Lance nods and removes the metal, bringing it back to the table. He wipes at his brow and takes a break, picking up a flask to drink a bit of water. When he speaks again, he sounds calmer. “He died at sea. One of your father’s vessel’s mistook the fishing boat he was on for that of Altea. It must have been the paint. We’d recently fixed it up and used stark white and blue because it was all we had. It was a gift for his birthday.”  
  
Suddenly, Keith feels ill. His stomach flips and he stops tossing the apple, gulping against the guilt climbing up his throat.  
  
“I apologize.” Keith begins, “I-”  
  
“It isn’t your fault, Your Majesty.” Lance shakes his head, “They declared it a misunderstanding. Your father’s men brought his body to shore and watched my mother fall to her knees and they at least gave us coin to pay for his funeral.”  
  
“That isn’t enough payment for what they did.” Keith urges.  
  
Lance shrugs and takes up the blade he’s worked on, looking at the length of it. “That’s why I’m here now. I plan to send most of my earnings to my family. They didn’t know I was staying here when I left but my letter will explain things.” He smiles, “My mother will have my head when I return one day.” He holds the hilt to Keith and Keith sets the apple aside, feeling the bare rounded metal before leather is wrapped around the base. Lance continues, “I believe that those who do something wrong will pay for their sins.”  
  
Keith looks away from the blade and Lance quickly slides his own gaze to the apple, studying it a bit too hard.  
  
“Would you like it?” Keith asks, wishing to disperse the tension. He can feel it and he blames it on his prying. Lance shouldn’t have had to remember such dark things today. “I stole it so if someone catches you eating it, blame it on me.”  
  
“Right.” Lance laughs, “Blame my king for something a common thief would do. I will most definitely be believed.”  
  
Keith laughs too and the sound is foreign. It is light and different than when he was drunk, it isn’t too loud or excited. It is calm and, if he dares to say it, _happy_ .  
  
“I enjoy your company.” Keith admits and watches Lance glance up fast, shocked. “Between the two of us, I wouldn’t mind you calling me by my true name.”  
  
“Your Highness.” Lance shakes his head, “I couldn’t.”  
  
“I’m asking you to.” Keith clears his throat and steps away from the post, laying the blade down gently. “This is good work.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Before Keith leaves, he turns back and opens his mouth, intent to ask Lance if he would like to take a walk in the woods. But the boy is staring intently at the blade and Keith feels a bit guilty for interrupting his work in the first place. So, he holds his tongue.  
  
Which is, of course, for the best.

____________________

“He is not royalty.” Ezor says to Keith two days later, drumming her fingers on the table. Between them, there is a map and news from the south. “Are you certain you want to get mixed up with him like this?”  
  
Keith doesn’t necessarily deny the implication. She had been the one to find him walking back from the forge and she'd glanced at Lance with knowing look.  
  
“It’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t up their own ass because of their status or wealth.” Keith says.  
  
“He is still a commoner.”  
  
“And I am a king.” Keith sighs, “Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Ezor.”  
  
The woman huffs and pushes a piece of paper to him, letting the topic drop. Narti had returned and she brought news of unrest from Altea, multiple sources speaking of things like assassin's and war and invasion. It makes a pain bloom in Keith’s head.  
  
“She was a soldier?” He asks, looking up at Narti. The woman signs _yes,_ and Keith feels that pain turn to something worse. “Fuck.” He says.  
  
Zethrid stands behind Ezor with folded arms at her chest, staring at the map. She is thinking of strategy and he knows that it’s best to let her think. With Acxa aiding and guarding Lilian at the orphanage, she is his next best at thinking of plans for war.  
  
“I wished to avoid this.” Keith says.  
  
Candles flicker and he roams his eyes over his land, past villages and cities and lords in their gifted castles. He will send word to them and gather forces all the way to the sea, where his fleet waits. Those who favor the water for battle are wild but they are loyal and he expects nothing less.  
  
“Altea has bided their time.” Ezor reminds him, picking up her short knife. It is sharp as hell and has slit more throats than Keith can count. The woman has a few screws loose but he’s always liked her, enjoying the way she pushes at Zethrid’s nerves. “They prayed for your father’s death. They see you as a weak pawn.”  
  
“They’re mistaken, then.” Keith says.  
  
“That they are.” Zethrid suddenly says. She leans over and points at the city of Solem. “They will attack here first. We should let them.”  
  
Ezor looks to her as if she’d grown two heads. “Why let them attack at all?”  
  
“We will block them in from the south. The fleet can send foot soldiers and our own troops can travel from the north. Timed right, they will be surrounded and slaughtered.”  
  
Keith thinks it over, knowing that Altea fights differently. Whereas the North is feral, Keith’s soldiers vicious and known for their use of brute force, Altea is well ordered. He remembers stories of their forces working as if one body, striking in tandem and taking down enemies like waves breaking over ships. Still, they will be on _his_ land for this war. And that will be their downfall.  
  
“Declare the order with fire.” Keith says, making up his mind. “Send the message to all of our allies, let them see it from the mountains. If it is war they want, it is war they will get.”  
  
Ezor smiles, a truly wicked thing. She slams her knife into the table, right on the kingdom of Altea. 

____________________

  
That night, Keith dreams of blood in the snow. It is so red it blinds him, making him fall to his knees and wipe at his eyes, as if the blood could somehow burn. Laying on the cold ground before him is his brother, who stares lifeless and silent at a starless night sky. All around them there is smoke and fire, a sound like great beating wings pushing against his ears.  
  
“Mother.” Keith whispers, blood spilling from his own mouth. “I have been betrayed.”  
  
Lotor’s silver hair is soaked with blood and his armor is ripped to shreds, the metal scorched. The beating sound grows louder, wind now pushing at Keith’s shoulders. He falls further, until his head is hanging and his eyes are blinking away wet tears. Heat flares at his back and he gasps, listening to footfall approach slowly.  
  
It crunches against the snow and that betrayal feels like death now. Someone pulls his head back by tugging at his hair and he stares up, though now he is blinded. Whispers surround him, the sound of a wolf howling becoming overtaken by fire slamming and crackling into the ground.  
  
“You are lost.” A voice says, contorted and deep. “You were always lost, Keith. Your blood is that of northern wolves. It cannot withstand the fury of a dragon.” 

Keith lets out a heaving, painful breath. In this dream his heart is breaking. 

The voice continues, a warmth resting on Keith’s cheek as if the stranger had placed their palm there.”Everyone must pay for their sins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will there actually be magical creatures in this? Who knows :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!!


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